


Missing Scenes

by Aithilin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied Torture, M/M, Missing Scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scenes throughout Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Extraction (S3 E1)

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of headcanons about missing scenes that take characters from Point A to Point B. Chapter titles will have seasons and episode names.

Extraction was not immediate. There were things to put in order, information that needed to be confirmed, a team to be assembled. Mycroft had to be pulled first— his information and movements far more useful to the greater good than Sherlock’s personal vendettas. He assembled a team himself, based on his knowledge of the holding areas, the guard units, and the surrounding area.

He ensured a precise extraction for Sherlock— none of the messy business of first contacts and negotiations to be used as a distraction. He sent in a scalpel to cut Sherlock out of the web he had gotten himself caught in.

"Oh, Will."

Chains stretched across the room, rusted and patched, but secure. It was cold, and filthy, and Victor could see the splatter of blood— fresh and old— from the ‘sessions’ that had been described in the report.

And strung up in the mess was Sherlock.

Area secured, he ushered his team to wait outside. There was a reason Victor had been requested for this mission.

He was still bleeding from the fight with the guards as he approached Sherlock. Razor thin, exhausted Sherlock. He could see the whole myriad of wounds— could catalogue old broken bones, see fist-shaped bruises fading and the long, harder stripes left by pipes and weapons still colouring.

As he took in the damage, Victor hoped there were a few prisoners he could have access to later. There were things that just shouldn’t be done, and Sherlock Holmes was not meant to be out of London.

Sherlock was looking him over, and Victor donned his easy smile as he got close enough to touch. He couldn’t take the look: Sherlock assessing him as a threat.

Instead he moved to the chains. “Heard you were in my neck of the woods, bee. You were supposed to be safe at home.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, so Victor filled the silence. Let his voice calm the wounded animal he was trying to free, even though they really didn’t have the time to handle this delicately.

"I leave for a few years and you get into this mess." He caught Sherlock as the man fell, the whole of his weight tied up in the chains that held him. He didn’t miss the whole-body flinch as one chain— rusted and biting— clattered to the floor. He was dragged down as he tried to catch Sherlock, but was pleased to see a shaking hand already trying to pick apart the second restraint. Victor supported Sherlock’s weight against his side and moved to help. "Let’s get you home, Will."

Later, sitting next to the stretcher and pressing bandages to wounds and cleaning up the damage alongside the medics brought in, Victor stroked a hand through Sherlock’s tangled hair. He could see the relief as the pain finally started to dull, as escape was confirmed. He could see Sherlock, his Will, starting to come back to the surface.

"There you are, bee." He said, soft and bent close. They were afforded no privacy in the plane.

It was just a ghost of a smile now, but Victor was glad to see in on Sherlock’s lips. “Staying?”

"Long as I can." Victor nodded, gently touching the column of Sherlock’s throat to see if it was external damage causing the pain when he spoke. "Long enough to have a word with Mycroft."

"Stay."

"I can’t, Will."

It was harder, more assured, more Sherlock. “Stay.”

Victor smiled and nodded. “Just a visit. Let’s get you home.”


	2. Threat Assessment (S3 E3)

One of the hazards of hiring private security from the best firm in the country was that you only noticed them when they weren’t doing their jobs. When there was a shadow missing from a corner or door; when the air was clear from the threat of violence. The thugs and criminals hired to scare off real threats, hired to remove the unpleasantness of every day life, were a constant presence in Magnussen’s life.

He noticed when they were missing.

He owned his security. Carried a thousand thousand little secrets and messages and bits of information that could set his papers ablaze with scandals and gossip. He knew connections and families and criminal records that could have half his security back in prison. He owned>/i> them.

And they weren’t at their posts.

"I gave them the night off. So much easier to have a civilized chat when there isn’t a gun in the room."

Magnussen recognized the man sat in the office. Everyone would by now.

"Ah, Mr. Moriarty, you should have called ahead." Retaining his composure, Magnussen circled the well-lit room on his way to the opposing seat. The man was certainly James Moriarty, certainly the ‘Richard Brook’ who kicked up such a fuss two years ago. Everyone knew that old story now. "I would have prepared tea."

His files were blank.

He knew the names, had theory of pressure points, but the man with the unimposing stature and black eyes sat before him was a blank slate.

Magnussen did not like blank slates.

"What can I do for you?"

"Do you enjoy thinking you have power?"

He must have stepped into Moriarty’s business.

"I merely keep secrets."

"No you don’t."

Incidents with Smallwood, perhaps. Magnussen knew the whispers about this man. There was no evidence, of course— how could there be— but he knew about the ghost “M”, and the trails of smoke that led back to this man. Nothing concrete, just a muttering he had never followed up on, never really grasped.

"I assure you, Mr. Moriarty, everything is quite—"

"You make people desperate." Moriarty hadn’t moved— bored eyes took him in, finger tips tapped against the arm rests, expensive suit barely ruffled from however long he had sat, or how he got in. "Do you know what desperate people do?"

"Have I done something to offend you?"

"Do. You. Know?"

Magnussen was not a fool. He collected information, and for all that information, he stored it for later use. All data was relevant. Two years ago, this man ‘died’. Two years ago, this man spun a wonderfully delicious story that brought England to heel. Two years ago—

_Pressure Point: Sherlock Holmes_

"Dear me, will you be warning me away from Mr. Holmes, the younger?"

Perhaps not. Moriarty simply smiled. Not a pressure point.

"I wouldn’t dream of it." Magnussen knew he was a threat to many people, but he could see that Moriarty was _danger_. “He’s a wonderful playmate.”

"Then what is the purpose of your visit?"

Moriarty stood, adjusted his suit, and simple smiled. “It’s in your best interests not to make Sherlock Holmes desperate. I would hate to have to clean up the mess that would leave.”

"You’re warning me away."

"Assessing a threat."

"And am I a threat?"

Magnussen nearly started at the laugh.

As Moriarty left, Magnussen closed his eyes and relaxed again— he had no files on the man, no information that wasn’t constructed two years ago. And he had never before felt that he had been dissected in this manner. Pulled apart under black eyes and pieces together with the care of a child not interested in a toy.

He had never been assessed before.

Magnussen decided that it was wholly unpleasant.

But clearly Holmes was a bigger prize than he anticipated.


End file.
